


Gravity Prompts

by fishingboatblues



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Drabble Collection, Incest, M/M, Prompt Fic, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6394687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingboatblues/pseuds/fishingboatblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my prompt fills from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stancest: Drink Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Drink Me: Stan and ford.

The bottle of champagne is cold against Stan’s palm and it clinks when he sets it down on the table. The sound manages to disrupt his brother from his reading; he looks up at Stan from where his head had previously been buried in Journal 4. From what Stan can gather he’d been sketching that one eyed tentacle monstrosity from earlier.

He looks at Stan and then the bottle and then back again. “And what is  _that_  for?” He asks, chewing his lip and twirling his pencil in between his fingers.

“Oh, you know, we didn’t really get a chance to christen the ol’ girl.” Stan answers, voice a little tired from the day’s experiences. “Was thinking we could do that now.”

Ford smiles lightly, all fond curling corners and crinkling eyes as he places his pencil behind his ear and closes his journal. “We’ve already left port, Stanley, it would be exceedingly belated of us to break it on the bow now.” He pauses to laugh to himself. “And besides isn’t that a little wasteful?”

Stan smirks and pulls out a set of glasses from the cupboard. “A man after my own heart.” He replies warmly, gravelly voice sounding as close to honeyed as it’s ever going to get. “I was thinking we could drink it, ya know? In like celebration or something.”

Ford stands up and places his book to the side, he moves towards Stan and trails a hand across the length of Stan’s shoulders as he circles around his brother to the other side of the table. Stan’s eyes lock with his and he smiles, his expression more than a little sultry. “And  _what_ would we be celebrating exactly?”

Stan grins, all crooked teeth and mischievous promise as he looks his brother conspicuously and intentionally up and down. “I can think of a few things.” He says with a voice low enough to increase the temperature of the room a couple of degrees, low enough to cause Ford to shiver indiscriminately. “Heck, we just defeated some oversized calamari for one.” He remarks as he pours them both a glass. “We also averted the apocalypse not too long. And there’s that other thing…”

Ford grabs his glass and raises a delicate but elegant eyebrow. “What other thing?”

Stan’s almost perpetual grin turns a little dirty at that, all slick and predatory as he leans forward and playfully swats his brother on the ass. “That fact I’m gonna make some sweet,  _sweet_ love to you tonight, sugar, that’s what.”

“Stanley!” He exclaims, equals parts embarrassed and happy at Stan’s words. “We just survived an encounter with a supernaturally altered Architeuthis, do you really think now is the time for inebriation and, and…”

“ _Sex_ , Poindexter, I know you can say it, ‘heard you begging me for it more than once, remember?”

Ford colours at that, sighs and shakes his head. He raises his glass and looks pointedly at Stan. “How about a toast?”

Stan nods and raises his glass to meet his brother’s. “To cheap champagne, ridiculous huge ass squid monsters and…” He pauses, his face going a little shifty; it’s an expression Ford recognises all too well as embarrassment for feeling sappy. Stanley quickly pulls himself together, ultimately deciding to finish what he’d started. “And to us, Sixer, to how much I love your ridiculously nerdy self. To you and me; forever.”

Ford smiles, cheeks a little red as he clinks his glass with Stanley’s. “To you and _I,_ Stanley.” He corrects without any real bite. Together they down their drinks in one fell swoop, it doesn’t take long before Ford can feel the alcohol singing in his veins.

They sit down after a little while, they sit in companionable appreciation as they trade jokes and stories about their childhood until they’re both red in the face from laughing. The champagne sits between them half empty by the time their eyes lock heatedly and the air becomes filled with heady potential; for once it seems like Stan’s prediction of the night’s events may in fact come true.

The bitter taste of champagne on his tongue, and the general feeling of intoxication, is worth it however when Stan pulls him into a smooth kiss that leaves his nerve endings tingling with desire. Stan’s stubble brushes his chin as their tongues lazily dance a four/four time and it’s the best thing he’s felt in years, the best thing he’s felt in _decades_.

Stan pulls away but not for long as he leans back in and places a quick but heartfelt kiss to Ford’s brow. “To forever.” He says, voice a little slurred but with conviction threaded through every word and love flashing in his dilated eyes.

They both lean in again and the rest of the champagne is quickly forgotten. They can always drink the rest some other day, after all; now that they’re together again every day is worth celebrating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt taken/prompted from [this.](http://fishingboatblues.tumblr.com/post/141792526789/drabbles-send-me-characters-and-a-prompt)


	2. Stancest: Mourn Me (Fire Within AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning this prompt contains character death and suicidal thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: If you're still doing these and you don't mind can you do a 'mourn me' with Stanley and Stanford to the tune of the fire within au?

Bill’s laugh is an echoing cacophony around him; it lingers on his skin, infects his mind with poison and makes his heart pound frantic and forceful inside his chest. His laugh is like a cage around him, holding him captive and silent in its wake. 

Bill’s laugh is like a hurricane; as soon as it hits the air all it does is create chaos and destruction in its wake, destroying lives, destroying families. Death is what Bill does best and Stanley is merely another chess piece captured and discarded on his way to the other side of the board, merely another victim in a one-sided war, another loss in a game never to be won.

Bill Cipher is like a hurricane, and Ford? Ford is at the eye of the storm, shivering and cold, _oh so cold_ , now that the fire that had swept the room, devoured and had incinerated his last shred of hope, is now gone.

“Look at you!” Bill says, pointing his cane at Ford with glee. “Boo-hooing over the only person holding you back, IQ, you’re so much better than _this_! Isn’t it better now that he’s gone? You can _finally_ breath, Fordsy, how’s that air feel, huh? HOW’S IT FEEL?!”

Tears escape Ford’s eyes as his hands slip through Stanley’s remains like paper through a shredder. His ashes slide through the gaps in his fingers like sand from a distant Jersey beach, the sensation and mental image bring dissonance and confusion, He can smell the sea, taste the air on his tongue and feel the sand on his skin.

And Stanley is right beside him, right? Just like they had promised back in those days of starry eyed youth, back in those days of love untampered by miscommunication and fear, back in those days of innocent intentions and all-encompassing affection.

Bill laughs again, a discordant harmony as he swirls in yellow and black loops around him; this time Ford’s eyelids flutter and he gasps as he awakens.

He sits up panting in his bed, his mind racing circles inside his head like the white rabbit and his heart leaps up like Alice into his throat to chase after it. His hands immediately grab for the jar lying next to him. Tonight is one of his more lucid moments, it’s a fact that ceases to comfort him. At least when he’s plagued by delusion, plagued by the specter of a brother he couldn’t save, at least when he’s like that he’s not alone and shaking; at the very least his delusions bring him comfort, bring him the closeness he had so denied Stan in life.

God, the things Ford would do to change that, the things Ford would do to feel his brother alive and safe inside his arms. He would damn the world for just a whisper of his brother’s skin on his, he would sell his soul for just a brush of lips on lips.

He would kill himself if it meant being with him again.

The only thing that stops him is the knowledge that his death would destroy the kids, shatter the porcelain their skin has become. The thing that stops him is that they too would feel the same mourning that nips at his heels, the same mourning that holds him firmly by the neck and just _squeezes_ every now and again when he least expects it. The same mourning that drowns him, on a _good_ day, in the sound of Stan’s frantic screams and pleas.

His mourning is like the ocean; endlessly blue and deep, rising and lowering but constantly a cycle without end. His life is merely forfeit to the ebb and flow, all traces of hope and happiness washed away never to return.

He’s a man slowly walking into the ocean and his love, his _need_ for Stanley are like stones purposefully placed inside his pockets, it’s like cement shackled to his ankles. He feels like a man drifting out to sea, so slow and so surely that everyone must see, must know it’s only a matter of time.

He wraps his arms around the jar and weeps, rocking back and forth hard enough for the springs to creak and groan in protest.

“I love you.” He mumbles, mouth pressed against plastic and glass. “I miss you.” He whispers, tears fogging the container. He falls asleep wrapped around his brother, dreams of hand prints and heartache, sea foam and suicide playing in his mind’s eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt taken/prompted from [this.](http://fishingboatblues.tumblr.com/post/141792526789/drabbles-send-me-characters-and-a-prompt)


	3. Stancest: Tell Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Tell me Stanley Stanford? ((Stancest??????)

Stanford wrings his hands together as he stares up at the ceiling from his position on the top bunk. It’s dark out and the night sits open before him, a gaping chasm of uncertainty, a gaping chasm of heady possibility.

He shifts where he lays and the springs creak just loud enough to kill him inside, he’s been planning to wake Stanley, sure, but not before he’s gained enough courage to utter a single word; timing is everything here, if Stan wakes up before Ford is ready, well…he might just lose his nerve.

He sighs, voice a breathy whisper as he tries to both psyche himself up and calm himself down. His heart is racing inside his chest as he contemplates his next course of action; he’s spent hours tossing and turning, spent hours weighing up the variables, all the things that could go wrong.

He’s been waiting weeks for the right moment, for the right opportunity, and with their parents visiting a sick aunt in Michigan it’s now or never. Tonight he’s going to tell Stan how he really feels. He doesn’t know how Stan is going to react, he’s been observing him for almost a month now and, Ford thinks, he’s seen an indication or several of his feelings being returned. He can’t be sure, not when it comes to someone else’s emotions, but he thinks he’s seen the nuances to Stan’s fond expressions, the warmth in his smiles, he thinks that the affection he has towards his brother is shared and mirrored in Stan’s mind.

Hands sweaty and heart frantic he speaks. “S-stanley, are, are you awake?” He questions.

A tired groan erupts from the bottom bunk. “Ugh.” Stanley hisses, his voice muffled as his head is presumably underneath the covers; he’s always had a tendency to full asleep with his head underneath. It’s probably a leftover habit from his childhood years of being terrified of the dark; not that Stan would ever admit to that, that is. “If I weren’t before I am _now_.”

At this point Ford begins to regret the whole timing of this, it could easily have waited until the morning. The only reason he had chosen this evening to confess was because he had hoped fatigue would lower his inhibitions, that fatigue would lend itself to honesty and courage. He had also hoped that tiredness would make Stan more open and honest, easier to read too.

He sighs and closes his eyes tightly, he feels like an idiot. He should never have decided on this course of action, he can’t do this, he _can’t_. What if Stan doesn’t feel the same? What if he reacts with disgust? What if this makes Stan hate him? He can’t, he can’t risk it.

“I, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He whispers in a voice he can only call ‘unconvincing’. “Go back to sleep.” He tells his twin and he expects that to be the end of that, but Stanley surprises him as a hand reaches up from the top bunk to hold one of his hands that had been dangling off of the side.

Ford gulps as a warm, somewhat sweaty, palm melds with his own.

“I can tell when you’ve got something on your mind, Sixer.” Stanley remarks with a quiet yawn. “You know you can tell me anything, right? Heck, I’ve been told I’ve got a set of pretty big ears before, ya know, and if you wanna talk they’re wide open.”

Despite everything Ford can’t help but to smile at that, he gives Stan’s hand a cursory squeeze and takes a deep breath; rip it off like a bandage, just get it over with and _tell_ him. Stan loves him, he knows this, it doesn’t matter if the feeling is just platonic and brotherly; Stan won’t hate or begrudge him for his feelings, at worst he won’t return them but Ford knows his brother will never, _never_ hate him for caring about him.

“I have something to tell you.” He confesses, sitting up and letting Stan’s fingers slide through his and drop from his grasp. “I-it’s embarrassing and uncomfortable, but I just, I need to tell you.”

Ford feels the springs of the bottom half of the bunk moving and before he knows it he can see a head poking out from underneath him. Stan looks, well, he looks tired and as embarrassing as it is to admit it Ford finds his messy bed head and his Rolling Stones nightshirt disarmingly charming.

“Okay now I’m a little worried, Sixer? You didn’t like kill Crampelter or something when I wasn’t looking, did ya? Because I love you Poindexter, but it’s a little early to be out digging ditches and dodging cop cars.”

Ford’s heart stutters inside his chest at Stan’s words and his nostrils flare, he can practically _feel_ his brain flooding with oxytocin at that. It’s almost mortifying how such a simple sentiment so easily expressed and declared makes him just want to reach down and kiss Stan for all he’s worth, to show him with actions what his words so often fail to convey.

“Ah, no, I’m saving _that_ for another night.” He jokes, hoping to lighten his own mood and when Stanley laughs all sleepy and low he knows the attempt at humor was worth it.  “I, uh, well.” He twiddles his thumps. “I don’t know what to say, I just-” He exhales roughly, he can practically feel himself chickening out, losing courage faster than he’d ever thought possible, losing traction faster than a car on ice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.”

Stanley is silent but the sound of feet landing firmly on the carpet betray him. Ford’s eyes widen when he catches a look at Stan standing in front of the bunk bed, he’s standing there, hair messy, Rolling Stones shirt barely reaching his hips and his legs are bare save for a pair of striped red and white boxers.

Delicate light is streaming through the gap in the curtains and it shines on Stanley, shading him in imperial blues and greys, the light colours his hair and shines in his eyes, it caresses him softly and lingers on his skin like a lover. To Ford he looks like divinity given flesh.

“Don’t be sorry.” Stan replies, voice soft and a crooked smile curling on his lips.

Ford is suddenly filled with so much affection, so much longing. He can barely restrain himself as the words tumble out of his mouth and trip from his tongue. “I love you.” He says, tone full of the reverence making a home inside of his chest.

Stan simply smiles and moves towards the bunk ladder with an intent he doesn’t recognize, it must be serious if Stan is willing to brave his fear of heights. “I _know_.” Stanley remarks and Ford feels his heart seize inside his chest, feels his world crumble before him.

The feeling doesn’t last long as Stan bridges the gap between them to place a soft kiss on his lips. “I love you too, you big anxious nerd.” He confesses with a soft voice made of honey.

They spend the rest of the night crammed onto the bottom bunk, limps everywhere and joints aching and at weird angles but Ford wouldn’t change it for all the anomalies in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt taken/prompted from [this.](http://fishingboatblues.tumblr.com/post/141792526789/drabbles-send-me-characters-and-a-prompt)


	4. Stanbill: Join Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Join me, Stanley and Bill, would love it to be shippy but that isn't necessary.

Bill’s eye widens, he looks both angry and, if Stan is reading the fucker right, just a little _impressed_. He circles around Stan, his eye squinting and thoughtful as he twirls around him like some unholy carousel ride.

“Well, well, WELL. Isn’t this clever? Got me trapped here by those fancy blue flames of yours, Stanley, oh how will I _ever_ escape? Light bulb! How about I use some fire of my OWN!”

Stanley gulps. This was supposed to work, why isn’t it working? Has something gone wrong? Are Ford and the kids safe? He doesn’t know and it terrifies him, what if their plan has failed? What if Ford was captured, or killed, a small torturous part of his brain adds, before he could pull the stupid trigger?

Bill advances towards him, his own blue fire twirling around his hands and whipping through the air. His eye is black and his body is red with anger; Well, shit, Stan is so done for. The illusion of Bill’s power however crumples when he glitches out like an overplayed VHS. His eyes widen when he realises it _did_ work; Bill is disintegrating bit by bit, molecule by molecule, it’s a slow but sure process. They did win, or are winning, the tenses are a little up in the air when inside one’s own damn mind.

Bill simply hisses and suddenly Stan’s being moved and pinned, his arms are up above his head and his legs are splayed just so, he’s still sitting in his chair but he can do nothing to move. Why Bill isn’t just killing him he doesn’t know, maybe Stan’s determination is just enough to keep the bastard leashed like a rabid dog.

Bill floats closer and he’s suddenly eye level with the demon. “You know I’m _impressed_ , Stanley, _real_ impressed. Not just anybody can trick me, you know that right? _Oh_ and have you humans _tried_ over the millennia! Kings, conquerors, _TYRANTS!_ So many men, with more wealth and power than you will ever see in a lifetime, have tried to pull the wool of my eye, but _oh_ just look at _you_! A little scrapper from a backwater little town in New Jersey, yet here you are! Standing on the verge of my _defeat,_ and your own demise but let’s put that aside for now. You know how many people have that claim to fame? Zero, zilch, nada, _none_. Stanley you are the only person in all of history to _beat_ the great Bill Cipher and oh isn’t that just CRAZY?”

Stanley doesn’t even feel a sting at his words, he knows when someone’s beat; this just Bill’s anger stage or whatever of grief, and besides he’s heard much worse and what the hell does he have to fear anyhow? He’s going to ‘die’ anyway, Bill, being the way he is, won’t be able to do more than just end him. Torture is completely out of the question now and that’s the only bargaining chip that maybe would’ve given Stan pause.

What does give Stan pause is the oddly admiring undertone to his words and the way he looks Stanley up and down. Stanley huffs and rolls his eyes. “I can feel this is leading up to something, big man, but whatever you’re selling I’m not buying.”

Bill laughs, his voice distorted and decaying; he’s been fading during their conversation, his left leg is already gone, like dust in the wind or some other kind of poetic metaphor or whatever, Stan isn’t a freaking linguist.

Stan gasps when he feels a small but insistent hand grip his jaw and force him to look Bill straight in the eye, the positioning is awkward and it strains his metaphysical neck.  “See Stan, that’s why I like you; you’ve got moxie and talent, oh _boy_ do you got talent, old man! See, Stanley, I’ve got a _proposition_ for you.”

“I’ve got one for you too, pal; _fuck_ _you_.”

Bill simply laughs that horrible, soul destroying laugh. “Tempting offer, one I’ve had from your brother _more_ than once back in the good ol’ days, but counter offer; join me, Stanley! Oh think of the things we could do together! I could make you great, Stan Pines, I could make you _magnificent_. You wouldn’t have to worry about silly little things like the kids leaving, no, they could stay with you forever, and Ford? I could make him stay, I could make him love you like he used to. You can have a family! You could have the universe even, all you gotta do is join me, Stan. It’s so simple! Even a monkey could do it!”

Stan feels his stomach clench at those words, he feels sweat pouring down his neck. The feeling of unease only increases when Bill presses a hand to his cheek and rubs at his skin with reverent fingers, as if he were petting a favoured pet.

Bill leans closer, he’s close enough for Stan to feel his eyelashes licking at Stan’s skin. Bill’s eye suddenly changes into a large tongue and Stanley’s tries to jerk back in response, but he can move no more than a fraction of an inch. He does the only thing he can think of; he gathers the salvia in his mouth and spits.

Bill sputters and curses, going all red and angry again but his power over Stanley dwindles and he’s free to move away from the freaky ass triangle.

“OH ARE YOU _EVER_ GOING TO REGRET THAT.”

Stanley smirks and readies himself for a punch that has been a long time in the making. “Time’s up, Bill.” He says looking at Bill’s crumbling form, now’s his chance. Stan cracks his knuckles, frowns and thrusts forward, fist raised with intent. “I’m never gonna join you, Bill, _never_. You messed with my family; now you’re gonna pay the price.”

Time seems to slow as his fist connects with that stupid eye, an eye that has no doubt haunted many a poor sap’s dreams. Bill breaks into a million pieces, floating into the wind as the flames draw ever closer. He grabs the photo of the kids off of the side and sighs; the only thing Stan joins Bill in is death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt taken/prompted from [this.](http://fishingboatblues.tumblr.com/post/141792526789/drabbles-send-me-characters-and-a-prompt)


	5. Haunt Me: Jimstan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Haunt Me: Jimmy Snakes Stan.

Good ol’ Jimmy isn’t really one for forming attachments, connections or God forbid; love. It’s always just been him and the open road ever since he was young, traveling from place to place, city to city. Not many know it but he’d grown up an army brat, dad always being moved from one base to another and his mom having kicked the bucket when he was still in diapers.

Back then he’d hated the open road, had been pissed at it for taking away his chance at having a normal life. But with a lot of things in life you gotta take what you hate, and what you love, and own it. In the end it wasn’t travelling or the open road he hated, it was the lack of freedom and choice that came with every car ride and house move, it was the whole act of being under his old man’s thumb.

His dad and him hadn’t had the best of relationships, someone was always angry over something the other had done and his dad had never been all too good at controlling his temper. Jimmy couldn’t count the number of times he’d had to patch himself up at two am because of a fight that had been more than a little one-sided. The only thing his dad had ever really done right by him was getting him his first motor.

Not long after he’d packed up and rolled out of town, leaving his dad in the dust.

After that his life had been a blur of asphalt, roadside bars and the sound of his baby purring underneath his thighs. It had been pretty good up until then, his past having been shoved far behind him, states away from ever being able to catch up.

His past never did manage to find him; but his future had and it had gone by the name of Stan.

He still regrets how things had shaken down on that front, still regrets how he had ended things. he’d been an asshole and had left Stan stranded in Oklahoma, his suitcase on the side of the road and the Stanley Mobile miles out in a small parking lot in Topeka, Kansas. He’d gotten all chicken shit, scared stupid by the prospect of making his relationship with his kitten something a little more substantial.

Their history together had been wild and strong for all it had been short. If the open road had been Jimmy’s first love then Stan had been his tried and true, his kitten had been his future and just like everything Jimmy was scared of; he’d ran away.  

Still though; looking at Stan now he thinks his choice might’ve been the right judgment call after all. Stan’s out somewhere in the Arctic Ocean, dressed in a silly life jacket Jimmy’s sure could do with some leather and a couple of well-placed metal studs.

Stan looks happy laughing next to a guy Jimmy can only assume is his brother, he looks _good_. He looks old and worn but not yet down, he looks like someone who’s gonna keep fighting to the end; he looks like his kitten all grown up and with sharper claws and bigger whiskers than he remembers.

Jimmy smiles and brushes past him, he lets himself trail an ethereal hand across Stan’s shoulders. He leans closer and whispers. “I love you.” And just like that Jimmy disappears, his corporeal form vanishing like rising smoke; his unfinished business won and done.

“What’s wrong?” Ford asks, brow wrinkling in concern when he notices the tears dotting Stan’s cheeks. “…are you alright?”

Stan wipes away his tears. “It’s nothin’ just thought I heard someth-” He shakes his head cutting himself off. “It’s nothin’.” He reiterates, dapping his eyes with his sleeve and giving a cursory look to the sky. “Just got something in my eye as all.”

If Ford doesn’t believe him he doesn’t say anything.

The next day Stan finds a small obituary in the newspaper and with shaking hands he cuts it out and places it in a small shoe box. He smiles softly and thinks of a time scented with leather and gasoline, of a time that tastes like root beer and softs kisses in Nevada.

He places the obituary in the box and thanks Jimmy for giving him a future; even if it had been without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt taken/prompted from [this.](http://fishingboatblues.tumblr.com/post/141792526789/drabbles-send-me-characters-and-a-prompt)


	6. Stancest: Song Shuffle; Tell Me That We’ll Always Be Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning every chapter titled with song shuffle is going to be drabble sized, maybe a little longer but not by much!

He turns to Ford one night after too many harsh words from their father, after too many kisses from Ford that have left him breathless and he just stares at him. Just takes him in, the way he looks and the way his eyes seem to glow in the moonlight and the only thing he can think of is spending his entire life with him, the only thing he can think of is the promise of freedom that the Stan O’ War represents for their future.

He leans forward, entwines his fingers with Ford’s and asks a question he doesn’t know will affect their entire lives. “We're always gonna be together, right?”

Ford laughs like the question is an absurd one, he laughs like he could never understand the buzzing in Stan’s head that tells him, often and in a voice that suspiciously sounds like Filbrick, that he doesn’t deserve any of this.

“Of course, Stanley!” Ford replies, smiling easily. “I wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

Ford’s words fill Stan with relief, a feeling that in a year will soon be quashed as the dream of a life together crumbles before his very eyes.


	7. Rickstanwich: Song Shuffle; Stop Trying To Fix Me And Find My Flaws.

He has a fun thing going with the twins, it’s fucked up and taboo enough that it gets his rocks off easy and with the two of them pulling at his dick he never has time to think about shit that’d be better left forgotten.

They take his shit and can hold their own which he likes in his fuck buddies. They’re also damaged enough in the right ways that he doesn’t run the risk of them doing something as stupid as them trying to change him or get him off the booze, or so he thinks.

He’s fucking wrong as it turns out. Every time he portals in he’s being fucking frisked, at first he thinks they’re just eager to blow their load or to get a dick shoved in their greedy mouths but no, instead when Rick isn’t looking Stan’s palming his flask and hiding it somewhere he don’t think Rick will look.

He cuts them loose like he does everybody else, he doesn’t need some incestual, _hypocritical_ , moral purists pissing on his parade. He wasn’t looking for a support group when he began fucking them; he’d been looking for enablers, for a hot ass or two to thrust up into, for someone to fuck him hard and leave bruises on his skin. He’d been looking for someone to distract him from the complete and utter bullshit that is their chaotic universe, to distract him from a universe where nothing means anything and where anything means _everything_.

He hadn’t been looking for someone to fix him, he’s not like everyone else; fixing him means blunting the thing that makes him the genius asshole that he is and besides their definition of ‘fixing’ him is far different than his own. If they really wanted to fix him they have put a gun to his head, but they’re far too good for that, far too good for him, really.

It’s better this way anyhow and there are other worlds out there too, he’ll just keep looking until he finds exactly what he’s looking for. He doesn’t need them, he doesn’t need them at all.


End file.
